The Hourglass Factory (40 page)

Frankie knew better than to answer back and for once was grateful to do as she was told.

They kept their heads bowed as they moved, casually efficient, through the corridors of the police station. Twinkle winked at the police sergeant holding the main gate to the
cells and fuddled a crumpled pound note into his breast pocket, patting it for good measure as he swung open the door. The corridors sprawled out like channels in a labyrinth, each one coloured
pale green by a fine coat of shiny new paint that had left its smell lingering in the air.

‘Now,’ said Twinkle, as they ascended a set of stairs, ‘that Sergeant has given us three minutes before he’s going to ring the cell bell. So you’d all better run
like the three little blind mice as soon as we get out of here.’

‘What do you mean three?’ Frankie said. ‘Who’s the third?’

Twinkle held a finger to her lips. They passed interview rooms and offices with closed doors, and several times courted sly looks from uniformed constables. Frankie found herself pondering once
more upon the dark web of Twinkle’s client list. As they pushed open a set of double doors into reception she saw a young boy’s back, loitering over by the reception fireplace, picking
at a stain on his jacket. He looked up as they entered and tipped his hat with a sour wink at Frankie. ‘You’re very welcome.’

‘Liam! You went and fetched her?’ Frankie asked.

Twinkle pinched her in the back. ‘Don’t speak to him. They might think we’re associated.’ It was too late. The duty sergeant, who had been watching Liam like a buzzard
from behind his desk, now hopped out to greet them. ‘This young man with you, madam?’

‘Oh, bravo Puss,’ Twinkle hissed. ‘Yes, officer,’ she smiled. ‘Indeedio.’

The man ran his eyes across the winking gemstones slung about Twinkle’s throat, then looked suspiciously down at Liam’s threadbare cap.

Twinkle hesitated. ‘I’ve adopted an urchin. You see, benevolence has always been a part of my—’

He interrupted. ‘What about those two?’

‘Oh, bailing out my wayward . . . um . . . daughters. Again. Well, girls will be what they are, Sergeant. Anyway, must dash. Keep up the sterling work.’ She grabbed Liam’s
wrist like he was a fur that had fallen off her shoulder and made for the front double doors.

As Milly reached to open them, they swung back and she almost collided with the wiry, large-eared detective who had booked them in when they first arrived. Sergeant Wilson stumbled in from the
cold, coming to a halt, an icy layer of air on his coat. Somewhere behind them, down in the cells, a bell had begun ringing. Wilson looked at Frankie with a creased brow, as if he knew he had seen
her somewhere before, perhaps behind a bread cart or serving coffee from a stall earlier that day.

Learning quickly from Twinkle’s exchange with the duty officer, Frankie fixed a jolly smile on her face as she said, ‘Afternoon, sir. Ooh, there’s a chill out there,
that’s for certain. Remember, remember the fifth of November. Glad we could be of use and thank you for releasing us back to our mother so quickly. Come on Milly, Liam, there’s a
bonfire up Hampstead Heath. Be warm as toast, I’ll bet you.’

They held their heads high as bridled horses as they stepped out into the pebble grey fog, leaving Sergeant Wilson agog at the strangest family he had ever seen.

Then they ran.

Wilson, who was still puzzled as to why the two prisoners had been set free, and who that woman and boy with them were, couldn’t be certain if it was the cell bell he was
hearing over the noise of the reception. He was startled out of his thoughts by Stuttlegate who appeared, twitching his neck and rubbing his hands like a limbering boxer.

‘What did you find at the corset shop?’

Wilson tried to peer past him. ‘Primrose about?’

‘Never mind Freddie, he’s off chasing a madman. What did you find?’

Wilson pursed his lips and shrugged wearily. ‘Either they were lying or the place was frisked before we got near it. Not a sausage. Definitely no gunpowder. Plenty of chopped up playing
cards, and a Gamages student chemistry set. Very strange.’

Stuttlegate growled and slapped a hand up to his chin. Those whiskers, thought Wilson, must itch him something awful the way he always picked and worried at them.

‘Right. Let’s get to Lincoln’s Inn.’

‘But you did hear the girls? The ones you let go. Said it wasn’t suffragettes, it was a separate cell.’

Stuttlegate worked the flesh of his lower lip with his teeth. ‘Until Freddie comes back from his gallivanting I’m not taking any chances. You want to be the one who leaves that stone
unturned? The one with all the lice wriggling about under it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well come on, get your togs together. Chop chop.’ Stuttlegate was passing back towards the double doors when he stopped. ‘What did you say about those girls being let
go?’

‘I passed them just now in reception, sir. Burlington Bertie and the flash one. They were with their mother.’

‘Their mother?’

‘That’s what she said. A woman wearing rather a lot of jewellery, and a boy, a ginger boy of about fifteen.’

They stared at each other plain. And now Wilson heard it. It was the cell bell ringing. Slow and steady, like a death knell. Like someone’s hand was weary from ringing it for so long.

‘Oh Christ.’ Stuttlegate suddenly looked like he might crush his fist into the doorway. His face crumpled, his fingers clenched. With some effort he gathered his wits and snapped his
fingers at the two constables by the door. ‘You two, on the double, after those two cats that just went out. Don’t stand on it, go!’ He roared into the air and ran in the
direction of the cell bell.

Wilson waited for the chaos to pass before he crossed behind the desk to the telephone. The duty sergeant had his neck craned over a ledger; the rest of the reception had emptied.

He picked up the receiver and quietly requested a private number. The operator was new and she took two attempts to connect him. Then a voice came over the line.

Wilson cleared his throat. ‘Mr Hawkins, please. Newsroom.’

He waited for a few seconds for another voice to crackle into the earpiece. ‘Teddy? Yes I know, good to speak to you too. Listen Teddy, I think you’ll want to be outside the Houses
of Parliament tonight. Don’t ask, just be there.’

Frankie and Liam skidded to a halt inside Covent Garden Jubilee Market, dodging a donkey cart laden down with pears. The stall owner swiped at Liam’s ear, but he ducked.
The sun was already sinking and desperate flower girls were beginning to harass anyone within ten yards for cut-price damask roses and boxes of Pugsby’s garden fireworks. Frankie thought she
could smell bonfire smoke on the wet fog. In the far corner of the market, sellers were cracking empty crates over their knees and chucking them into a heap for firewood.

They looked back in the direction they had run from, waiting for Milly and Twinkle to catch up. After a few seconds Twinkle appeared round the corner, clutching the swinging mass of her
jewellery in one hand and the froth of her underskirts in the other as she hurried along.

‘She’s gone into a soapmaker’s with a telephone kiosk to place a call to Belgravia,’ she puffed, coming to a halt. Moments later Milly’s silken shape appeared in
the crowd, striding towards them, her cheeks a pallid mushroom colour.

‘She wasn’t there.’

‘What about your father?’ Frankie asked.

Milly shook her head. ‘He goes to his club most afternoons.’

Frankie sat down on an empty apple barrel and bowed her head. Twinkle gazed round her with a frown at the quantity of aproned workers within touching distance of her, clearing up their pitches.
She scratched underneath her hat. ‘Would somebody care to illuminate me on what exactly you pair are up to? It’s that missing trapeze girl, isn’t it? You’re obsessed. I told
you she was a bad apple.’

Milly was about to open her mouth when Frankie interrupted. ‘I think if all goes to plan, Twinkle, you might read about it in tomorrow’s early edition.’

Twinkle puckered up her mouth. Frankie could see the tentacles of gossip-detection itching to reach out from her, doing battle with her desire to remain irritated at being called to their
rescue.

At length she gave a little grunt. ‘Very well. If you can manage not to go for any more jollies with the constables, I might be able to make my Harley Street doctor’s appointment
after all.’ She extracted a watch from the valley of her bosom and looked at it. She gave a little nod of satisfaction and began looking around for cabs. ‘Now whatever you do,’
she raised a finger, ‘I was never at the police station. Understand?’

‘Harley Street,’ Frankie said. ‘You’re not unwell are you, Twinkle?’

‘No, no, the very opposite. I am in rude health, as they say. But the doctors on Harley Street give such excellent pelvic massages. Preventative for all sorts of ailments.’

Before Frankie could cotton on to her meaning she was air-kissing Milly goodbye and waggling her finger at Frankie, muttering warnings about journalists and criminal records, then tottering back
into the crowd, waving manically at a motor cab driver who had stopped outside the flower market. ‘Thank you,’ Frankie yelled. Twinkle raised her arm without looking back. They watched
her bundle herself into the rear of the car and instruct the driver as he rumbled off into the traffic.

Frankie swallowed and looked at Liam. ‘So, Scarlet Pimpernel. How d’you think to go fetch her?’

Liam scowled. ‘Oh that’s a fine thank you.’ He thinned his weedy eyes. ‘You think I’ve cloth for brains, don’t you? I’m not the one went and got myself
arrested. Jojo’s women are all the same. Can’t look after yourselves.’

The heat rose quickly in Frankie. ‘I’m not Jojo’s woman. And where were you, anyway? Wouldn’t have been arrested if you’d been where I told you to be.’

‘I was outside watching when they dragged yous away. Listen, I couldn’t give a donkey’s if you two go getting yourselves banged up. I’m doing this . . .’

‘Because Jojo’s paying you, I know. You mentioned it. Nice to see that’s the conscience of the Irish.’

Frankie saw his cherubic cheeks flash an angry red and she felt regretful that her tongue had lashed too quickly. A few market traders turned round, dangling their baskets, watching. She
suddenly noticed Milly staring at the donkey cart full of conference pears they had passed by. She remembered the diagram, the pear shape of the bombs, and a sickly taste grew in her mouth.
‘Are you all right?’

Milly nodded gently.

‘Listen, I’ve got an idea. Think you can get us into Lincoln’s Inn? It’s just that I think if anyone knows how to break into the Houses, it might be the suffragettes.
Heard on the grapevine that was something they were good at.’

Milly’s drained face told Frankie she wasn’t in the mood to laugh. She looked across to the flower market, watching the bonfire outside take further shape. Then she looked up Exeter
Street.

‘If we go via the Aldwych we’ll be less likely to run into anyone from Bow Street.’

‘I’d say we were the least of their worries at the moment,’ Frankie offered.

‘Aye but they don’t think that way,’ Liam said. ‘That’s what you have to be careful about with peelers.’

Milly raised her head slowly. ‘So now we have two sets of lunatics to worry about catching us.’

As they set off, they were glad for once of the brewing gloom. Streetlamps were beginning to be lit by the lamplighters, creating little beacons to mark out the path. Once Frankie thought she
heard a barrage of footsteps behind them as they turned a corner but the noise took another route and faded. What she certainly didn’t hear were the quieter footsteps much closer behind,
carefully measuring the distance between the electric streetlamps and sticking to the shadows, so that the owner of the two quick-moving feet, the owner of the tightly armoured black waist would
never be seen.

‘Why can’t we just let them go ahead with it?’ one woman asked, crammed into the crowd of chairs round the long table.

‘If they burn the building to a crisp it’ll teach them a lesson.’

‘And,’ said a third woman, ‘weren’t us. Not on our watch. Nothing to do with us. There’s two birds killed with one stone.’ She raised her hands into a little
fluttering dove diving towards the table. A few of the others laughed nervously.

Frankie and Milly waited for it to die down. There were almost fifty members of the WSPU wedged into the press room of Lincoln’s Inn. Some of them had hissed and whispered when they saw
Frankie, but they recognised Milly and the sickly pallor of her silenced any mutinous jeers. Liam had been made to wait outside again. Frankie had donated him the last of her cigarettes out of
guilt.

There was an electric charge in the air; the women were tense and curious as to why Mrs Dale had pulled them all off their posts so late in the afternoon for an emergency meeting; tables were
strewn with galley proofs for the latest edition of
The Suffragette
. Abandoned typewriters sat in orderly rows and Frankie thought with a prick of sadness about her Blickensderfer sitting in
a pawn shop.

A small-boned woman with a twitching nose was speaking. ‘We must be allowed to continue protesting. Stopping these girls sets a dangerous precedent.’

Frankie laid her palms flat on the table. ‘They are not protesters, they’re murderers. Whether they set the bombs off tonight or tomorrow, there will be people in there. People will
perish.’

‘Christabel once said,’ the woman replied, ‘that if we broke into the Houses and seized the mace we would be the Cromwells of the twentieth century.’ There were a few
taps on tables and ‘hear hears’.

Then a throaty voice sounded at the back of the room. ‘Ay, but blow up the Houses and you’ll be the Guy Fawkes of the twentieth century.’ The ladies all fell silent and bowed
their heads or fidgeted with their jewellery. There was an uncomfortable sense of duplicity in the air. ‘Do you want people to think we’re as brutish as the police?’ the throaty
woman went on. ‘That we care as little about people’s lives as they do?’